That said, as has been the case for 25+ years now, photography has proved rewarding, and I did manage to make a few photos I like. I’m not saying these are the greatest photos, but they all mean something to me. Maybe they will to you as well.

In no particular order, here are 10 of my favorite images from 2025.

Soho Skyline. In the spring of the year, a friend and I made a trip partway down the east coast with stops in NYC, Baltimore, PA, and DC. On this morning, I woke up early and did one of my favorite things there is to do in NYC. I grabbed a bagel, egg, and cheese from a nondescript bodega and then went up to my hotel’s rooftop patio. I had the patio, the view, and the breakfast all to myself while the street below filled with the flower and produce vendors that populate this street. Glorious.

Bronx rain. I feel like this is the year I really started to appreciate baseball. I’m not sure I’m what you’d call a fan even now, heck I’m not even sure my favorite team. But between watching some early games, attending this one in person, and following the playoffs closely – I’ve really come to love the game itself. The history, the subtlety, shifting drama, and the nuance. It’s more pure than so many other sports, despite the money and the scandals.

This game, not my first MLB game but the first for me at Yankee Stadium, was objectively a stinker. It was rain delayed multiple times, the home team lost, and the atmosphere was more Dartmouth, Nova Scotia than New York, New York.

But we stuck it out. I loved it. Stand clear of the closing doors.

Clothes on the line. No matter the year, one of my favorite things to do is to drive around this province with my photographic partner in crime, Clinton, chatting and stopping when the mood strikes, taking a few photos, but, well, mostly just looking at the world.

This particular stop was near a little antique store and a wood carvers gallery. Incredible work. Good people. Irresistible scene.

Picnic area. Newfoundland is one of the most beautiful places on earth, I think. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. I’ve been lucky enough as part of my work travels to spend a few days a year there, and I’ve driven a good deal of the island at this point.

This particular scene presented itself in one of Newfoundland’s less dramatic little communities. As Clinton is fond of reminding me, one of the recurring themes in my photography is the “slightly pathetic”. This derelict playground and accompanying picnic area leans into it.

New Hampshire Sunset. I get to travel a fair amount as part of my employment. It’s one of my favorite things about doing what I do, but the nature of the job doesn’t really allow for a lot of sight-seeing or personal pictures. I slept in a hotel or motel more than 60 nights in 2025. Cheap hotels are still romantic places full of a sort of literary charm to me. I took this picture after a long drive. At the time, I wrote this

Home of the unknown salesperson and the unread King James. Golden light and weary eyes. The shower is weak. The air conditioner sounds like a V6. A sad couch and an honest-to-goodness landline. I know exactly where I am, but I’m utterly lost again. The desk clerk gave me a huge smile. Friendly or stoned? I couldn’t tell. I miss the people back home, but if they were here I wouldn’t know what to say. This highway might go on forever, but drive it long enough and it’s your thoughts that’ll stop you from getting anywhere. Nothing to be done. More miles tomorrow. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Speaking as one who has abused the privilege for a very long time, it’s good to be alive.

Winter vieux. Speaking of romance, it’s pretty hard to beat old Quebec. After photographing at a hockey tournament on a Saturday night, I got up early and took some photos around the old city before I drove home. I like the details in this one. The colors. The dirty snow. The half cropped person on the left. The couple holding hands. The icicles that look like they might drop at any melting moment and kill someone.

St. Martin’s Layers. Photographically speaking, I’m always interested in better understanding the way the 3D world can be confusing in a 2D context. This is, obviously, a simple photo of beach, ocean, and sky. But look long enough, a credit to the way photography strips away context, and it’s just layers and textures. It might be a close-up of a weirdly blue layer cake or one of those sand things sandwiched in glass. Color and texture and lines – photography’s lexicon in it’s most naked form.

Wired in Saint John. In a related but distinct way, this photo does the same thing for me as the above. The 3D nature of the criss crossing powerlines and cables is confused by the perspective, rendering a 2D scene that, perhaps, tells us something about how we really see. I dunno.

My Saint John. I’ve taken a lot of photos of these exact fading ads in my hometown over the last 25 years. I’m not sure why this one seems special, but it does to me. My interest in my hometown as a photography subject comes in waves, but is also a decades old constant at this point. I’ll be back to try and get this scene even better next time.

Little hooker. Look at it.

As is so often the case, life, lethargy, and my inability to finish anything were the story in the time since. My character arc is a bit of flatline.

But back then, when I was young and more ambitious, I sold a bunch of prints and people said a bunch of nice things. It was an incredible experience.

Collected here are the 18 photos that were exhibited, and below that some photos I consider part of the project that I didn’t have the space or finances to include back in 2014.

Below this line are the alternates that were never up on the wall.

I decide to break my vacation cycle and take my camera for a walk before the early morning light turns into late morning heat.

J’t’aime vieux Quebec. Details like a door knocker with the face of a lion charm me. Enchanté, little fern.

The streets are mostly empty. Coffee. Croissant. A barista with a Freddie Mercury mustache and a vintage Carhartt disapprovingly clucks and corrects my Carleton County pronunciation of the latter. I don’t even attempt boulangerie or petit-dejeneur. I’m just a tourist here, guy, let me play the game.

There’s history here, but the antique ambience is a little lost in the McGarbage piles left to remind us of beauty’s transient nature. Ancient stones and the detritus of modernity. I’m drunk on metaphors.

Suddenly, I’m right in front of St John Gate. St Jean.  I recall an anecdote about bodies being piled outside this very spot. Sobering.

I read somewhere about the first winter the British occupied this capital after the carnage on Abraham’s plains.

Prior to the fighting, the British, eager to lay siege on the French stronghold, had destroyed the city’s shelters with bombardments and the surrounding farms with fire.  

After the blood was shed and the French capitulated, a few thousand British victors were left to occupy the ruins they’d made.

Among them, Malcom Fraser, who had been with the 78^th Highlanders under Wolfe’s command, later that winter wrote “Numbers of sick and dead since September 18th, 1759: Sick: Two thousand, three hundred and twelve. Dead: Six hundred eighty-two. The skin of the dead turned black and their limbs bloated into obscene balloons. The ground was frozen and they were buried in snowbanks, waiting for spring.”

I bet it smelled like the McGarbage pile.

I descend back into the street, bustling now as the city awakens. Workers have removed the garbage piles, and others come behind them to sweep up whatever bits are left. Rue St Jean a palimpsest, alcohol and excess hover their quill above the sidewalks.

Outside Paillard, a boulangerie I cannot pronounce, a small series of beautiful, disconnected tableaus plays out for my lens. A new façade to layer on top of the old one.

I overhear someone behind me, bemoaning the leadership they elected. I wonder if they know about the door knockers and the cats and their faces.

I watch someone take one big bite of a McMuffin they’ve just moments prior purchased and then discard the rest.

I brace myself to climb the hills back to my hotel. The sun is out in force now. I need an air-conditioned nap. I bemoan the shape I’m in.

There’s been a pattern.

NYC

Lancaster County, PA

Baltimore, MD

Harper’s Ferry, WV

Sharpsburg, MD

DC

I think about this on a Sunday morning in Old Quebec. I’m tromping about in a fresh dusting. It’s mostly quiet. Mostly still. A tour bus idles in front of the Chateau. Diesel and Starbucks for breakfast.

Church bells ring out. The damned stay damned.

Christmas decorations left to distress. Nordiques jersey on the shoulders; reliving past glory.

A few fatigued souls shamble about, lost in whatever battle is waging on their plains.

Through a window, I can see families having brunch inside the lavish parts of the hotel. I do not belong there. I cannot help myself but stare. My Fuji takes a souvenir. For them or me? I’m selfish. I’m a collector of moments.

The despair of February is in the ether. There’s beauty everywhere. Always a duality.

I watched a man rummage in the garbage for aluminium. He had a big sack of colorful, discarded cans. It was the most beautiful thing. I wanted to take a picture, but not his dignity. So I did nothing. Except watch.

Montcalm and Wolfe. Hundreds of years later it doesn’t seem to matter who was right or moral. Aggressor and aggrieved, or perhaps the other way ’round. The victor is the victor. What happened happens. They’ve all got monuments somewhere.

The losers take pictures and push on toward March.

Spring will come. It always does.